I'm with You
by cheride
Summary: It's often in the darkest moments that things become crystal clear.


_This is a work of fanfiction, for entertainment purposes only. The characters and concepts of Hardcastle and McCormick do not belong to me, but to their creators._

**A/N:** So I was browsing around the internet, and I'll admit it: I was looking for an idea to steal. So, I suppose I should've paid more attention to where I ended up so I could give proper credit. But, somewhere in the ether is one of the myriad of Harry Potter sites that posted a songfic challenge to use Avril Lavigne's _I'm with You_. Okay; that's as good an idea as any. This is also from the STAR for BK 'zine. Thanks again for all the support of that endeavor.

* * *

_Isn't anyone tryin' to find me?  
Won't somebody come take me home_

**I'm with You**

by Cheride

It wasn't exactly consciousness, McCormick was sure of that. Things were too fuzzy and grey around the edges, with little spots of light here and there stabbing into his brain. On the other hand, he hurt too damn much to really be _un_conscious, and he was sure of that, too. Maybe if the world would stop spinning for just a minute or two, he could figure it out.

But one thing he knew, even in his current haze, was that the world rarely did the things he wanted. He didn't have all the pieces, but he could remember hard times: an absentee father and a dying mother; a man with a raised voice and then a raised fist; hunger and cold that he thought would never stop; gray walls and mean boys that made him wish he was still hungry and cold. It all blurred together in his memory and yet seemed like yesterday. Then more grey walls, this time with steel bars and angry men. He was angry, too. Then one face above all others, looking down at him—looking down _on_ him. Cold blue eyes that stared without compassion, with no concern for others, no hint of humanity.

_No. _

The world stopped spinning suddenly, for just a moment, and his thoughts tried to clear. He had something wrong, not entirely complete. It should be easier to figure out now that he wasn't moving any more. But before he could put it together, there was a noise beside him, and a rush of cold air as he was pulled roughly from his newfound stillness. Before he had a chance to hope that he was being led to some sort of reprieve, he felt the hands release him with a shove, and he plummeted, head over heels, down the embankment into darkness, with only those blue eyes to follow him.

He was in that not-exactly-awake place again, and he decided this time that he didn't like it one little bit. He thought complete unconsciousness might be preferable to the way he floated, detached from reality, with the only things penetrating the blackness the chill in the air and those equally cold eyes. _And yet . . ._

Yet why did he feel like he was waiting for something—or someone—in particular, even when he had no idea what, or who? And why did the memory of those terrifying blue eyes not entirely terrify him?

Not that he wasn't scared. It was cold, and he was hurt. Hurt pretty bad, he thought, judging by the way the cold and the pain all mingled together into one unidentifiable sense of approaching numbness. That couldn't be good. And the darkness surrounding him was plenty terrifying. He squinted his eyes open, but there was nothing to see. And he knew bad things could happen in the dark.

He let his eyes drift closed again, and somehow knew the other blue eyes would be there waiting.

More images waited behind his closed lids, and the face that belonged to the uncaring eyes reappeared. He didn't understand. The face was stern; just as cold as the eyes. But in the very next instant, there was a smile; small—almost hidden—but it brought a warmth to the eyes that just seemed right. He knew now why those eyes didn't scare him; they were the eyes of a friend. Maybe he would sleep now, now that he understood.

But then, just as he thought he would sink into a restful oblivion, more faces swam before him, even as he squished his eyes shut against them. He didn't want to remember this. So many people, people he didn't even know, but everyone seemed to be having a good time. Food and drink for the smiling faces, and no hint that there was murder in the air. Then there was no more crowd, only two faces looking back at him, though he thought they had been expecting to see someone else. The pain came then. And then he was here, alone in the dark, waiting for the eyes of a friend.

No bad things would happen in the dark tonight, he told himself. He just had to wait; had to hang on, though he still thought it would be so much easier just to sleep. But his friend wouldn't like that; he could see it in the eyes that weren't really cold. He forced his own eyes open again, trying to find the strength to do as the blue eyes commanded; trying _not_ to believe that time was slipping away.

_Hardcastle_.

Finally, the name with the face. That made him feel better; made him think maybe there was still some time left after all.

And it explained the coldness of the eyes. He remembered the first time; he remembered the word 'guilty'. Grey walls and steel bars came next; he'd had a right to be terrified—a right to be angry.

But that was a long time ago. They didn't talk about it much, but they both knew it was different now. Though sometimes he thought that he was the only one who truly _remembered_. It didn't make any sense, but Hardcastle still acted like there wasn't a thing in the world wrong with sending an innocent guy to prison, and then blackmailing him into a partnership. But there was no denying it was working.

If he hadn't felt like he was breaths away from death, he might've smiled; rationalizing his relationship with Hardcastle hadn't been one of his strong points under the best of circumstances. And he thought maybe only a crazy person would categorize any situation that resulted in being shot and thrown down a ravine as 'working'.

But somewhere through the miasma of memories and the numbing pain, he was sure there was a connection between Hardcastle and the fact that he was still alive, even if it was only the vaguely tickling notion that if he died, the judge would kill him.

McCormick awoke with a start. Of course, he'd never realized when unconsciousness finally claimed him, but a quick, if somewhat murky, assessment of his situation proved that nothing had really changed. The details were dimming again, but he had the broad strokes: he was waiting for someone to save him.

_Oh, yeah; Hardcastle. Wait for Hardcastle; he'll save me. Again._

That's when he realized that there was noise from nearby, maybe up above; probably what had pulled him back to semi-consciousness. Had help finally arrived? He felt his hope surge, and he tried to move to attract attention, only to discover he couldn't; tried to call out to his would-be rescuer, but could barely manage a whisper. He fought down the panic; tried to focus his thoughts.

But then finally, without the need for him to do anything at all, the movement was coming closer, and there was that face, those blue eyes, and they were filled with such obvious fear and relief that he wondered how he could have ever thought of them as cold.

He thought maybe the judge was saying something, but he couldn't make it out. It didn't matter, though; nothing mattered except that this man was here now, and that's all that he'd been waiting for.

"What took you so long?" he whispered, knowing he was finally safe. He was with Hardcastle.


End file.
